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THE SPIRES OF OXFORD 
AND OTHER POEMS 



THE SPIRES OF 
OXFORD 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

W. M. LETTS 

AUTHOB OF "801IG8 FBOH LEINBTEB," "A BOUGH WAT,' 
"DIANA DETHBOHED," ETC. 




NEW YORK 

E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 
1918 






COPTBIGHT, 1917, 

Bt e. p. DUTTON & CO 



Firtl printing Augutt, 1017 

Seeond printing February, 19tii 






prtnted (ti the dtifted 8t»te« of HnwHea 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE 

The majority of the Poems in this volume were 
published by us in 1916 under the title Hallow-e^en 
and Poems of the War. 

The verdict of the public, as shown by continual 
requests for permission to republish, is that The Spires 
of Oxford is the most important poem in the volume 
— and therefore in issuing a new edition with several 
new poems, we bow to this verdict and give The 
Spires of Oxford its place in the forefront of the 
volume. 

The Publishers 



Certain of thoso poems h.-we already 
appeared in tlie Spi'ctator, Wt'stmith^ter 
Gi}st'ttt\ Pall Mall Gazt'ttr, Ohst-rrer, 
Dublin HtvU-xe, and Th<: Month. 



To you who see 
The world with me 
I give this book. 

If you in courtesy should look 
With favour on its pages claim 
The title deed and write your name 
Here on this pa^e. To you who know 
The glamour of the passing show, 
Subliyne and sordid, trivial, great, 
But life,— this book I dedicate. 
As casual lookers-on we meet 
Here at some corner of the street. 
It's good to know you see it too, 
Smile, sigh and wonder when I do; 
That you discern the crooked jest 
Of contrast 'tivixt our worst and best, 
Humour is ever friendship's test. 
I like to know you hear the call 
Of all things sad, neglected, small; 
Thrill to the magic of the unnd, 
Love country, town and your own kind. 
Sinners and saints and sea and sky 
Just as they are, for so do I. 

Then let this book 
I fain would mend 
Be yours, my friend. 



CONTENTS 
POEMS OF THE WAR 

MGE 

The Spikes of Oxford S 

Hallow-E'en, 1915 5 

Hallow-E'en, 1914 7 

The Call to Arms in Our Street 9 

Chaplain to the Forces 11 

Casualtt 13 

Pro Patria 15 

Golden Boys 16 

In the Making 17 

Epiphany, 1916 19 

Screens 21 

What Reward? 23 

To a Soldier in Hospital 24 

July, 1916 27 

He Prayed 29 

The Deserter 30 

A Sister in a Military Hospital 32 



AD MORTUUM 

Dead 35 

Your Name 36 

Heart's Desire 37 

Loss ^ 38 

iz 



CONTENTS 

PAOK 

The Dream 39 

In Memory 40 

If Love op Mine 41 

Alive 42 

In All Loveliness 43 

In Town 44 

Spring the Cheat 45 

The Magic Citt 46 

The Ghost 47 

The Truce 48 

MISCELLANEA 

Rosa Mtstica 51 

The Winds at Bethlehem 53 

Offering 55 

Sonia's Song 56 

The Wish 58 

Home 60 

The Wind's Call 64 

Elaine at Astolat 66 

The Page's Song of the Happy Lady 67 

Faeries 69 

To Tim 71 

A Dog's Grave 73 

To Scott ,. 74 

The Monkey's Carol 75 

Pensioners 77 

Lookers-on 79 

Friends 80 

Angelic Service 82 

OcR Lady of the Lupins 84 

The Doctor 86 

Sails 101 

The Rebel 103 

Aeropl.\nes and Dragonflies 104 

The Tbtbt 105 

X 



POEMS OF THE WAR 



THE SPIRES OF OXFORD 

(SEEN FROM A TRAIN) 

I SAW the spires of Oxford 

As I was passing by, 
The grey spires of Oxford 

Against a pearl-grey sky ; 
My heart was with the Oxford men 

Who went abroad to die. 

The years go fast in Oxford, 
The golden years and gay; 

The hoary colleges look down 
On careless boys at play, 

But when the bugles sounded — ^War ! 
They put their games away. 

They left the peaceful river, 
The cricket field, the quad, 

The shaven lawns of Oxford 
To seek a bloody sod. 

They gave their merry youth away 
For country and for God. 
3 



THE SPIRES OP OXFORD 

God rest you, happy gentlemen, 
Who laid your good lives down, 

Who took the khaki and the gun 
Instead of cap and gown. 

God bring you to a fairer place 
Than even Oxford town. 



HALLOW-E'EN, 1915 

Will you come back to us, men of our hearts, to- 
night 

In the misty close of the brief October day? 

Will you leave the alien graves where you sleep 
and steal away 

To see the gables and eaves of home grow dark in 
the evening light ? 

O men of the manor and moated hall and farm. 
Come back to-night, treading softly over the 

grass ; 
The dew of the autumn dusk will not betray where 

you pass ; 
The watchful dog may stir in his sleep but he'll 

raise no hoarse alarm. 

Then you will stand, not strangers, but wishful to 

look 
At the kindly lamplight shed from the open door, 
6 



HALLOW-E'EN. 1915 

And the fire-lit casement where one, having wept 

you sore. 
Sits dreaming alone with her sorrow, not heeding 

her open book. 

Forgotten awhile the weary trenches, the dome 

Of pitiless Eastern sky, in this quiet hour 

When no sound breaks the hush but the chimes 

from the old church tower. 
And the river's song at the weir, — ah ! then we will 

welcome you home. 

You will come back to us just as the robin sings 
Nunc Dimittis from the larch to a sun late set 
In purple woodlands ; when caught like silver fish 

in a net 
The stars gleam out through the orchard boughs 

and the church owl flaps his wings. 

We have no fear of you, silent shadows, who tread 
The leaf-bestrewn paths, the dew-wet lawns. Draw 

near 
To the glowing fire, the empty chair, — we shall not 

fear, 
Being but ghosts for the lack of you, ghosts of our 

well-beloved dead. 

6 



HALLOW-E'EN, 1914 

*'Why do you wait at your door, woman, 

Alone in the night?" 
"I am waiting for one who will come, stranger, 

To show him a light. 
He will see me afar on the road 

And be glad at the sight." 

"Have you no fear in your heart, woman. 

To stand there alone? 
There is comfort for you and kindly content 

Beside the hearthstone." 
But she answered, "No rest can I have 

Till I welcome my own." 

"Is it far he must travel to-night. 

This man of your heart?" 
"Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seas 

Have kept us apart, 
And he travels this night to his home 

Without guide, without chart." 
7 



HALLOW-E'EN, 19U 

"And has he companions to cheer him?" 

"Aje, many," she said. 
"The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are 
swept, 

The fires glow red. 
We shall welcome them out of the night — 

Our home-coming dead." 



THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR 
STREET 

There's a woman sobs her heart out, 

With her head against the door, 
For the man that's called to leave her, 
— God have pity on the poor ! 
But it's beat, drums, beat, 
While the lads march down the street. 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow. 
Keep your tears until they go. 

There's a crowd of little children 

Who march along and shout. 
For it's fine to play at soldiers 

Now their fathers are called out. 
So it's beat, drums, beat; 
But who'll find them food to eat? 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow. 
Ah! the children little know. 



THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET 

There's a mother who stands watching 

For the last look of her son, 
A worn poor widow woman 
And he her only one. 

But it's beat, drums, beat, 

Though God knows when we shall meet ; 

And it's blow, trumpets, blow: 

We must smile and cheer them so. 

There's a young girl who stands laughing. 

For she thinks a war is grand. 
And it's fine to see the lads pass, 
And it's fine to hear the band. 
So it's beat, drums, beat. 
To the fall of many feet; 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow, 
God go with you where you go 
To the war. 



10 



CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES 

Ambassador of Christ you go 
Up to the very gates of hell, 
Through fog of powder, storm of shell, 

To speak your Master's message : "Lo, 
The Prince of Peace is with you still, 
His peace be with you, His goodwill." 

It is not small, your priesthood's price. 
To be a man and yet stand by, 
To hold your life whilst others die, 

To bless, not share the sacrifice, 

To watch the strife and take no part — 
You with the fire at your heart. 

But yours, for our great Captain Christ 

To know the sweat of agony. 

The darkness of Gethsemane 
In anguish for these souls unpriced. 

Vicegerent of God's pity you, 

'A sword must pierce your own soul through. 
11 



CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES 

In the pale gleam of new-born day 
Apart in some tree-shadowed place. 
Your altar but a packing case, 

Rude as the shed where Mary lay. 
Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod 
You bring the kneeling soldier, God. 

As sentinel you guard the gate 

'Twixt life and death, and unto death 
Speed the brave soul whose failing breath 

Shudders not at the grip of Fate, 
But answers, gallant to the end, 
"Christ is the Word— and I His friend." 

Then God go with you, priest of God, 
For all is well and shall be well. 
What though you tread the roads of hell? 

With nail-pierced feet these ways He trod. 
Above the anguish and the loss 
Still floats the ensign of His Cross., 



19 



CASUALTY 

John Delaney of the Rifles has been shot. 

A man we never knew, 

Does it cloud the day for you 

That he lies among the dead 
Moving, hearing, heeding not? 

No history will hold his humble name. 

No sculptured stone will tell 

The traveller where he fell ; 

That he lies among the dead 
Is the measure of his fame. 

When our troops return victorious shall we care 

That deaf to all the cheers, 

Lacking tribute of our tears, 

He is lying with the dead 
Stark and silent, God knows where? 
13 



CASUALTY 

John Delaney of the Rifles — who was he? 
A name seen on a list 
All unknown and all unmissed. 
What to us that he is dead? — 

Yet he died for you and me. 



14 



PRO PATRIA 

In bowler hats, top coats, 

With woollen mufflers round their throats, 

They played at war, 
These men I watched to-day. 
Weary with office work, pinched-faced, depressed. 
About the field they marched and counter-marched, 
Halting and marking time and all the rest — 
Meanwhile the world went on its way 
To see the football heroes play. 

No music, no applause. 

No splendour for them but a Cause 

Hid deep at heart. 
They drilled there soberly. 
Their one half-holiday — the various show 
Of theatres all resisted, home renounced; 
The Picture Palace with its kindly glow 
Forgotten now, that they may be 
Worthy of England's chivalry. 
15 



GOLDEN BOYS 

Not harps and palms for these, O God, 

Nor endless rest within the courts of Heaven, — 

These happy boys who left the football field. 

The hockey ground, the river, the eleven, 

In a far grimmer game, with high elated souls 

To score their goals. 

Let these, O God, still test their manhood's 

strength, 
Wrestle and leap and run. 
Feel sea and wind and sun; 
With Cherubim contend; 
The timeless morning spend 
In great celestial games. 
Let there be laughter and a merry noise 
Now that the fields of Heaven shine 
With all these golden boys. 



16 



IN THE MAKING 

"And of all knights— I out-take none, say what men will 
say — he beareth the flower of all chivalry." — Malory. 

God took fine clay and made a man 

As brave and true, as clean and straight 

As any since the world began, 

And men were first at odds with fate. 

His was the knighthood of a soul 

Whose faith and honour cannot fail. 

The Far-ofF City was his goal. 

His quest the vision of Sancgreal. 

Bom of the race that sailed the sea 

With Hawke and Frobisher and Drake, 

He too could face death merrily 
And risk his all and never quake. 

Fearless and gentle, steel and fire. 
Son of an order passing hence. 

He rode like any old-time squire, 

Rode straight and never shirked a fence. 
17 



IN THE MAKING 

What did he lack, what one thing more? 

They could not tell who loved him best. 
Only they saw God try him sore 

And put his valour to the test. 

From death upon the battlefield 

He had not shrunk nor turned away. 

But stauncher still he would not yield 
To the long siege of every day. 

He would not wince nor show the pain 

Of that slow ordeal by fire. 
He set his face and laughed again 

Before his shattered heart's desire. 

So God approved the deep-laid plan 
We, blind-eyed, had not understood. 

God said "Behold, a gentleman," 

And smiled and saw His work was good. 



18 



EPIPHANY, 1916 

The Kings still come to Bethlehem 
Though nineteen centuries have fled; 

The Kings still come to Bethlehem 
To worship at a Baby's bed. 

And still a star shines in the East, 

For sage and soldier, king and priest. 

They come not as they came of old 
On lordly camels richly dight; 

They come not bearing myrrh and gold 
And jewels for a king's delight. 

All battle-stained and grim are they 

Who seek the Prince of Peace to-day. 

They bring not pearls nor frankincense 
To offer Him for His content. 

Weary and worn with long suspense 

With kingdoms ravished, fortunes spent, 

They have no gifts to bring but these — 

Men's blood and women's agonies. 
19 



EPIPHANY, 1916 

What toys have they to please a child? 

Cannon and gun and bayonet. 
What gold? Their honour undefiled. 

What myrrh? Sad hearts and long regret. 
For they have found through bitter loss 
That Kings are throned upon the cross. 

The Kings still come to Bethlehem 

With broken hearts and souls sore-vexed. 

And still the star is guiding them 

Through weary nights and days perplexed. 

God greet you, Kings, that you may be 

New-crowned at His Epiphany. 



90 



SCREENS 

(IN A HOSPITAL) 

They put the screens around his bed; 

A crumpled heap I saw him lie, 
White counterpane and rough dark head, 

Those screens — they showed that he would die. 

They put the screens about his bed ; 

We might not play the gramophone, 
And so we played at cards instead 

And left him dying there alone. 

The covers on the screen are red, 

The counterpanes are white and clean; — 

He might have lived and loved and wed 
But now he's done for at nineteen. 

An ounce or more of Turkish lead, 

He got his wounds at Suvla Bay; 
They've brought the Union Jack to spread 

Upon him when he goes away. 
31 



SCREENS 

He'll want those three red screens no more. 

Another man will get his bed, 
We'll make the row we did before 

But — Jove ! — I'm sorrv that he's dead. 



WHAT REWARD? 

You gave jour life, boy, 

And 1/oti gave a limb: 
But he who gave his precious wits, 

Say, what reward for him? 

One has his glory. 

One has found his rest. 
But what of this poor babbler here 

With chin sunk on his breast? 

Flotsam of battle, 

With brain bemused and dim, 
O God, for such a sacrifice 

Say, what reward for him? 



S3 



TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL 

(A. W.) 

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace 

Of ardent life and limb. 
Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, 

To ride, to climb, to swim. 
Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death 
With every breath. 

So when you went to play another game 

You could not but be brave : 
An Empire's team, a rougher football field, 

The end — who knew? — your grave. 
What matter? On the winning of a goal 
You staked your soul. 

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth. 

With carelessness and joy. 
But in what Spartan school of discipline 

Did you get patience, boy? 
How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain 
And not complain? 

9i 



TO A 80LDIEB IN HOSPITAL 

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, 

Impulsive as a colt, 
How do you lie here month by weary month. 

Helpless and not revolt? 
What joy can these monotonous days afford 
Here in a ward? 

Yet you are merry as the spring-time birds 

Or feign the gaiety 
Lest those who dress and tend your wound each 
day 

Should guess the agony, 
Lest they should suffer — this the only fear 
You let draw near. 

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books 

And argument this truth, — 
That man is greater than his pain, but you 

Have learnt it in your youth. 
You know the wisdom taught by Calvary 
At twenty-three. 

Death would have found you brave, but braver 
still 
You face each weary day, 

25 



TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL 

A merrj Stoic, patient, chivalrous, 

Divinely kind and gay. 
You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate 
Of unkind Fate. 

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh. 

The latest to complain ; 
Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this 

In your long fight with pain ; 
Since God made man so good, — here stands my 

creed, 
— God's good indeed. 



26 



JULY, 1916 

Here in happy England the fields are steeped in 
quiet, 
Saving for larks' song and drone of bumble bees ; 
The deep lanes are decked with roses all a-riot, 

With bryony and vetch and ferny tapestries. 
O here a maid would linger to hear the blackbird 
fluting. 
And here a lad might pause by wind-berippled 
wheat, 
The lovers in the bat's light would hear the brown 
owl hooting, 
Before the latticed lights of home recalled their 
lagging feet. 

But over there, in France, the grass is torn and 
trodden. 
Our pastures grow moon daisies, but theirs are 
strewn with lead. 
The fertile, kindly fields are harassed and blood- 
sodden. 
The sheaves they bear for harvesting will be our 
garnered dead. 

27 



JULY, 1916 

But there the lads of England, in peril of ad- 
vancing, 
Have laid their splendid lives down, ungrudging 
of the cost; 
The record — just their names here — means a mo- 
ment's careless glancing, 
But who can tell the promise, the fulfilment of 
our lost? 

Here in happy England the Summer pours her 
treasure 
Of grasses, of flowers before our heedless feet. 
The swallow-haunted streams meander at their 
pleasure 
Through loosestrife and rushes and plumed 
meadow-sweet. 
Yet how shall we forget them, the young men, the 
splendid, 
Who left this golden heritage, who put the 
Summer by. 
Who kept for us our England inviolate, defended, 
But by their passing made for us December of 
July? 



HE PRAYED 

He prayed, 

There where he lay, 

Blood-sodden and unkempt, 

As never in his young, gay carelessness he'd dreamt 

That he could pray. 

He prayed ; 

Not that the pain should cease, 

Nor yet for water in the parching heat, 

Nor for death's quick release, 

Nor even for the tardy feet 

Of stretcher-bearers bringing aid. 

He prayed ; 

Cast helpless on the bloody sod : 

"Don't trouble now, O God, for me. 

But keep the boys. Go forward with them, God ! 

O speed the Camerons to victory." 

The kilts flashed on: "Well played," he sighed, 

"weU played." 
Just so he prayed. 



THE DESERTER 

There was a man, — don't mind his name, 

Whom Fear had dogged by night and day. 

He could not face the German guns 

And so he turned and ran away. 

Just that — he turned and ran away, 

But who can judge him, you or I? 

God makes a man of flesh and blood 

Who yearns to live and not to die. 

And this man when he feared to die 

Was scared as any frightened child. 

His knees were shaking under him, 

His breath came fast, his eyes were wild. 

I've seen a hare with eyes as wild, 

With throbbing heart and sobbing breath. 

But oh ! it shames one's soul to see 

A man in abject fear of death. 

But fear had gripped him, so had death ; 

His number had gone up that day, 

They might not heed his frightened eyes. 

They shot him when the dawn was grey. 



THE DESERTER 

Blindfolded, when the dawn was grey, 
He stood there in a place apart, 
The shots rang out and down he fell. 
An English bullet in his heart. 
An English bullet in his heart! 
But here's the irony of life, — 
His mother thinks he fought and fell 
A hero, foremost in the strife. 
So she goes proudly; to the strife 
Her best, her hero son she gave. 
O well for her she does not know 
He lies in a deserter's grave. 



81 



A SISTER IN A MILITARY 
HOSPITAL 

Blue dress, blue tippet, trimmed with red, 
White veil, coif-like about her head. 
Starched apron, cufFs, and cool, kind hands, 
Trained servants to her quick commands. 
Swift feet that lag not to obey 
In diligent service day by day. 

A face that would have brought delight 
To some pure-souled pre-Raphaelite ; 
Madonna of a moment, caught 
Unwary in the toils of thought. 
Stilled in her tireless energy, 
Dark-eyed and hushed with sympathy. 

Warm, eager as the south-west wind, 
Straight as a larch and gaily kind 
As pinewood fires on winter eves. 
Wholesome and young as April leaves, 
Four seasons blent in rare accord 
— You have the Sister of our ward. 
32 



AD MORTUUM 



For England's sale men give their lives 

And we cry "Brave." 

But braver yet 

The hearts that break and live 

Having no more to give. 

Mothers, sweethearts and wives. 

Let none forget 

Or with averted head 

Pass this great sorrow by — 

These would how thankfully be dead 

Yet may not die. 



84 



DEAD 

In misty cerements they wrapped the word 

My heart had feared so long: dead . . . dead . . . 

I heard 
But marvelled they could think the thing was true 
Because death cannot be for such as you. 
So while they spoke kind words to suit my need 
Of foolish idle things my heart took heed, 
Your racquet and a worn-out tennis shoe, 
Your pipe upon the mantel, — then a bird 
Upon the wind-tossed larch began to sing 
And I remembered how one day in Spring 
You found the wren's nest in the wall and said 
"Hush ! . . . listen ! I can hear them quarrel- 

ling . . ." 
The tennis court is marked, the wrens are fled. 
But you are dead, beloved, you are dead. 



Sfl 



YOUR NAME 

When I can dare at last to speak your name 

It shall not be with hushed and reverent speech 

As If your spirit were beyond the reach 

Of homely merry things, kind jest or game. 

Death shall not hide you in some jewelled shrine 

Nor set you in marmoreal pomp apart, 

You who still share the ingle of my heart. 

Participant in every thought of mine. 

Your name, when I can dare to speak it, dear, 

Shall still be linked with laughter and with joy. 

No solemn panegyrist shall destroy 

My image of you, gay, familiar 

As in old happy days, — lest I discover 

Too late I've won a saint but lost a lover. 



HEART'S DESIRE 

My heart's desire was like a garden seen 
On sudden through the opening of a door 
In the grey street of life, unguessed before 
But now how magic in sun-smitten green : 
Wide cedar-shaded lawns, the glow and sheen 
Of borders decked with all a gardener's lore, 
Long shaven hedges of old yew, hung o'er 
With gossamer, wide paths to please a queen, 
Whose happy silken skirts would brush the dew 
From peonies and lupins white and blue. 
Enchanted, there I lingered for a space, 
Forgetful of the street, of tasks to do. 
But when I would have entered that sweet place 
The wind rose and the door slammed in my face. 



37 



LOSS 

In losing you I lost my sun and moon 
And all the stars that blessed my lonely night. 
I lost the hope of Spring, the joy of June, 
The Autumn's peace, the Winter's firelight. 
I lost the zest of living, the sweet sense 
Expectant of your step, your smile, your kiss ; 
I lost all hope and fear and keen suspense 
For this cold calm, sans agony, sans bliss. 
I lost the rainbow's gold, the silver key 
That gave me freedom of my town of dreams ; 
I lost the path that leads to Faerie 
By beechen glades and heron-haunted streams. 
I lost the master word, dear love, the clue 
That threads the maze of life when I lost you. 



THE DREAM 

I DREAMT — before death made such dreaming 

vain — 
That sometime, on a day of wind and rain, 
I would come home to you at fall of night 
And see your window flushed with firelight. 
There in the chill dark lonesomeness I'd wait 
A moment, standing at the garden gate 
Scarce trusting that my happiness was true, — 
The kind, warm lights of home and love and you. 

Then, lest they'd vanish to be mine no more, 
I'd speed my steps along the garden path. 
Cross my own threshold, close the wind-blown door 
And find you in the firelight of the hearth. 
O happiness ! to kneel beside you there 
And feel your fingers resting on my hair. 



IN MEMORY 

Would God that I might build my love in stone 
That would out-time the centuries and dare 
Despiteful death to lay his finger there, 
So that your fame to all men might be known ; 
A minster church, crowned with a soaring spire. 
Great buttressed walls, clerestory, lofty nave 
Deep carven doors and every window brave 
With sunset hues. In chantry, transept, choir. 
So great a peace men needs must kneel to pray. 
Then I would have them, each to other say, 
"One loved her true love well and worthily 
And built this minster to his memory, 
God rest their souls" — so all should know the 

story, 
Your fame, beloved, and God's greater glory. 



40 



IF LOVE OF MINE 

If love of mine could witch you back to earth 

It would be when the bat is on the wing, 

The lawn dew-drenched, the first stars glimmering, 

The moon a golden slip of seven nights' birth. 

If prayer of mine could bring you it would be 

To this wraith-flowered, jasmine-scented place 

Where shadow trees their branches interlace; 

Phantoms we'd tread a land of fantasy. 

If love could hold you I would bid you wait 

Till the pearl sky is indigo and till 

The plough shows silver lamps beyond the hill 

And Hesperus holds his torch above the gate. 

If love of mine could lure you back to me 

From the rose gardens of eternity. 



41 



ALIVE 

Because you live, though out of sight and reach, 

I will, so help me God, live bravely too. 

Taking the road with laughter and gay speech, 

Alert, intent to give life all its due. 

I will delight my soul with many things. 

The humours of the street and books and plays, 

Great rocks and waves winnowed by seagulls' 

wings, 
Star- jewelled Winter nights, gold harvest days. 
I will for your sake praise what I have missed, 
The sweet content of long-united lives, 
The sunrise joy of lovers who have kissed. 
Children with flower-faces, happy wives. 
And last I will praise Death who gives anew 
Brave life adventurous and love — and you. 



49 



IN ALL LOVELINESS 

I LOVE you in all loveliness, sweetheart. 

Skies, stars and flowers speak of you to me 

And every season is your emissary 

Lest I forget you now we are apart. 

The tracery of leafless trees inset 

Upon a saff'ron sky: warm nights in June 

When corncrakes shout beneath a full low moon; 

September mornings in a world dew-wet; 

Dim harvest fields at dusk : tree-shadowed lawns, 

A garden sweet with lavender and stocks ; 

Pale flowers by twilight, jessamine and phlox; 

The ring-doves' soft complaint in summer dawns ; 

The scent of cowslips, violets white and blue — 

These are the embassies that speak of you! 



IN TOWN 

I LOVE you in the vehement life of town, 
The pulsing high-ways, the gay market places: 
The masque of various players, king and clown. 
Philosopher and fool: the passing faces; 
The sense of brotherhood with all I meet. 
I love 3'ou in the wonder of night's falling, 
The blossoming of lights in every street. 
The pearl-shell sky, pale river, voices calling 
The news of town : the homeward-pressing throng. 
The gay shop windows with their varied treasure ; 
Street melody, a snatch of careless song. 
Lovers arm-linked, the carnival of pleasure. 
O ardent soul, my friend, the town is dear 
Because in every street I feel you near. 



M 



SPRING THE CHEAT 

The wycli-olin sluikos its sequins to the ground. 
With cvorv wind tho chestnut blossoms fall : 
Down by tho stream tho willow-warblors sing. 
And in tho garden to a merrv sound 
The mown grass flies. The fantail pigt>ons call 
And siiUe on tho roof; a murn\uriiig 
Of bees about the woodbine-ooverod wall, 
A child's sweet chime of laughter — this is spring. 
Lumiiuius evenings when tho blackbird sways 
Upon the rose and tunes his flag-oolot, 
A sea of bluebells down the woodland ways, — 
O ex(iuisite spring, all this — and yet— and yet — 
Kinder to mo tho bleak face of December 
Who gives no cheating hopes, but says — "Re- 
member." 



THE MAGIC CITY 

I HAD not known you skilled in wizardry 

Until I trod the pavements at your side, 

When sudden at your "Open Sesame" 

The magic city flung its portals wide. 

Against a sky pale as a chrysolite 

I saw, sharp cut in shadow, dome and spire, 

Belfry and gabled roof, bewitched by night. 

Spangled with flame — my town of heart's desire. 

I left it thus at moonrise, and with day 

Came back alone — ah ! folly ! but to find 

The glamour fled from street and square and 

tower. 
Vanished my magic city; chill and grey 
This drear familiar town, with face unkind 
Giving the lie to that enchanted hour. 



46 



THE GHOST 

My lady, musing at her mirror, said: 
"This is my burial night, for I am dead; 
Hope dug the grave and laid my sad heart there, 
Sorrow was sexton, heavy-footed Care 
The lanthorn-bearer, Love in sober stole 
Was priest, while fickle Joy stayed but to toll 
The bell for me ; then Memory graved the stone, 
And all being done, they left me there alone. 
But though the grave is made, the earth close- 
pressed 
About my heart, to-morrow I must rise. 
Put on my gay attire, laugh and jest. 
Lest one should read the secret in my eyes — 
Lest one should know that in this careless host 
Of revellers, I linger as a ghost." 



THE TRUCE 

One made this prayer : "O Christ, I dearly crave 

Some little lazy peace to follow death; 

A sunny bank where tranquil willows wave 

Wind-silvered leaves, and time to draw my breath 

Beside a stream knee-deep in arrow-head 

And dear forget-me-nots, a gentle spot 

Where I may thank my God that I am dead 

And all the traffic of the world forgot. 

There, dreamless, I shall lie so still — so still, 

The cautious moorhen piloting her brood 

Will heed me not, the heron stir no quill 

For fear of me in that kind solitude. 

O grant this truce from pain, this moment's rest, 

Before I brace my soul to further test." 



4S 



MISCELLANEA 



ROSA MYSTICA 

Our Lady is the mystic rose that bloomed in 

Nazareth 
Against whose blessed heart there lay the Lord of 

life and death. 

She is the rose without a thorn that grew on 

Jesse's stem, 
The Rose of roses on her breast was lulled in 

Bethlehem. 

To this white rose at God's command the Angel 

Gabriel came, 
With promise of the Blessed One and message of 

His Name. 

Our Lady is the pale pink rose in whom all fra- 
grance lies, 

Her summer was m Jesus' kiss, her sunshine in 
His eyes. 

51 



B08A MYSTICA 

She is the golden-hearted rose that held our per- 
fect joy; 

When in her arms against her heart she clasped 
her heavenly Boy. 

Our Lady is the red, red rose upon a royai tree, 
Deep red for love and red for grief, the reddest 

rose was she 
Whose soul was pierced by sorrow's sword on 

cross-crowned Calvary. 



THE WINDS AT BETHLEHEM 

When Jesus lay on Mary's knee 

There was no wind nor breeze that stirred, 
For Heaven then made minstrelsy 
And all the earth in silence heard. 

There was no wind on sea or land, 
No boisterous gale blew loud and wild, 

The four great winds came hand in hand 
And stood about the Holy Child. 

The four great winds, their pinions furled, 
Came softly in with humble tread; 

They saw the Maker of the World 
Upon His lowly manger bed. 

The South wind looked with radiant eyes 
Upon this King so small and sweet; 

He softly sang Him lullabies 
And knelt adoring at His feet. 
53 



THE WINDS AT BETHLEHEM 

The West wind like a shepherd clad 

Had brought his pastoral pipes to play ; 

He piped his music wild and glad 
Until the shadows fled away. 

The North wind bowed and knelt him down 

To gaze upon this sight so fair ; 
He gave the Babe the frosty crown 

That lay upon his tangled hair. 

Before that shrine the East wind bent, 
He had strange gifts beyond all price, 

Of gold and gems of Orient 

And gums and frankincense and spice. 

There was no wind on sea or land, 
But round about the manger bed 

The four great winds stood hand in hand 

And worshipped there with wings outspread. 



5i 



OFFERING 

She had no gift to bring her heart's beloved, 
So poor she was and sad, 

Having no store laid by to cheer the bleak to- 
morrow. 
So for his weal she offered all she had — her sorrow. 
Who knows but God, compassionate, took heed 
Accepting this her treasure, 
And on her heart's beloved one in his need 
Spent it in fullest measure. 



55 



SONIA'S SONG 

To hear the angels play their lutes 

To hear them sing were good, 

But oh! I'd choose to meet my love 

Deep in the beechen wood, 

With bluebells, bluebells everywhere 

About us as we stood. 

To see the cherubs play at ball 

In every golden street 

Were joy enough for Christian souls, 

Yet ah ! how heaven-sweet 

To walk the hills with one I know, 

The wild thyme at our feet. 

To gaze on all the holy saints. 
What should one ask but this? 
The sight of them in white array 
Might be a sinner's bliss. 
But which of them has known the joy 
Of my true lover's kiss.'' 
56 



SONIA'S SONG 

Have pity on our human hearts, 

Dear God, and of Thy grace 

Let me be with my own sweet-heart 

In some green sunny place. 

Oh, let me clasp his hand in mine 

And see his happy face. 

Then shall I laugh for joy of soul 

And merry company 

Till all the little seraphs hear 

And clap their hands for glee. 

Till the blessed saints and angels laugh 

Amid their melody. 



57 



THE WISH 

O MAN of my heart, I have asked this of God, 
A little white house that faces the sun 
And yourself to be coming in from the fields 
When the day's work is done. 



I have told it to God, the wish of my soul, 
The little white house at the butt of the hill, 
With a handful of land and some grass where the 

goat 
Could be eating her fiU. 

White walls and nasturtiums, the j'ellow and red 
Climbing upwards to cling to the straw of the 

thatch. 
And a speckledy hen with a dozen fine eggs 
That she's wishful to hatch. 
58 



THE WISH 

The two of us there by the side of the hearth 
And the dark lonesome night creeping up to the 

door, 
Your smile and your handclasp, oh! man of my 

heart — 
I am asking no more. 



HOME 

(IN DUBLIN) 

I GAVE her bread and bid her lead me home, 

For kilt she was with standing in the cold, 

An' she, the creature, not turned eight years old. 

She went before me on her small bare feet, 

Clutching some papers not yet sold, 

Down Westland Row and up Great Brunswick 

Street. 
Sometimes she'd turn and peer 
Into my face with eyes of fear. 
She'd hunch her rags in hope to find some heat. 
And stare at shops where they sold things to eat. 
Then suddenly she turned. 
And where a street lamp burned 
Led me along a narrow, dirty lane; 
Dim glass and broken pane 
Stood for the windows. Every shadowed door 
Held children of the poor. 
That sheltered from the rain. 



HOME 

Through one dark door she slipped and bid me 

come 
For this was home. 
A narrow stair we had to climb 
To reach the topmost floor. 
A hundred years of grime 
Clung to the walls, and time 
Had worked its will. Tenants the like o' these 
The landlords don't be planning how they'll please. 
A smell was in it made you hold your breath: 
These dirty houses pay the tax to death 
In babies' lives. But sure they swarm like bees, 
Who'd wonder at disease.? 
The room held little but a depth o' dark; 
A woman stirred and spoke the young one's name. 
The fire showed no spark, 
But presently there came 
A slipeen of a girl who made a flame 
By burning paper, holding it torch-fashion. 
Thinking, maybe, the place would stir compassion. 
A dirty mattress and a lidless chest 
That served for cradle; near it stood 
A table of dark painted wood ; 
Foreninst the grate a chair 



HOME 

With three legs good. 

The place was bare 

Of any sign of food. 

The light burnt out. The young one found more 

paper 
And kindled it for taper, 
This time I saw above the bed 
Our Lady in a robe of blue, 
A picture of our Saviour's head, 
Thorn-crowned. The light fell too 
On the child's frightened face, 
The wretched dirty place. 
And so I spoke of what the priests might do. 
Of them that help in such a case. 
They'd send the child to some good Home, 
And never let her roam 
About the streets, half-dead 
With cold and hunger. 
They'd teach her and befriend her, 
Wash her and mend her. 
They'd see her clothed and fed, 
And in a decent bed. 
She'd have her brush and comb. 
From every sort of hurt 



HOME 

They would defend her. 

All this I said, 

And paused to let them speak. 

The child had caught her mother's skirt 

And pressed her cheek 

Against her arm, 

As if she feared some harm. 

So, clasping her, the mother shook her head. 

"You have a right," said she, 

"To leave her here with me. 

Heart-broke in such a place she'd be — 

The creature loves her home." 



THE WIND'S CALL 

O Love, the wind would have us for a while, 
He called aloud our names about the eaves, 
Then passed like smoke across the meadow grass 
And with a breath made silver of the leaves. 

He cried to us to follow at his heels. 
He wound his horn where whitening willows grow. 
He stood awhile with ruffled wings to watch 
The swayings loosestrife and the river's flow. 

Come out, beloved, let us follow him, 
The dripping ivy taps against the pane, 
They bid us to the dance in field and wood, 
They beckon us — our playmates, wind and rain. 

They whisper to us of a hidden place 

Within the windswept woods, where boughs bend 

low, 
Where two may sit and learn their secret lore. 
Where haunted hazels and where rowans grow. 
64 



THE WIND'S CALL 

The wind is waiting, in your wistful eyes 
I see the woods reflected, gay and wild. 
What is a world of bricks and men to you? 
Come out! Come out! The woods have claimed 
their child. 



65 



ELAINE AT ASTOLAT 

'And ever she beheld Sir Launcelot wonderfully." — Malory. 

"My heart had contentment," she said, 

"Till I saw you pass by. 

Bewitching the bird from the bough 

And the stars from the sky. 

My soul had a sanctuary once 

But your shadow fell there, 

And the flame of the candles burnt dim 

In the chill of the air. 

My thoughts had their freedom," she sighed, 

"Till you took them in thrall. 

Now they follow like birds where you go. 

Rising up at your call." 

He heeded not, turned not his head 
For his heart was his own. 
And he passed with a song on his lips 
Where she waited alone. 
66 



THE PAGE'S SONG OF THE 
HAPPY LADY 

"The princess asked her page to sing, and he, sitting in 
the twilit window, sang this song to his lute." 

There was a lady broke her heart 

In two — in two. 

She hid the pieces out of sight 

And danced and sang the livelong night. 

For nothing else remained to do. 

*'My joy," said she, "was like a bird, 

So soon it flew. 

And now the winter will be long 

With bitter winds and no bird's song . . . 

Grey weary days !" Ah ! she spoke true. 

She sought no dreary cypress shade, 
Nor yew . . . nor yew. 
They did not see her eyes were wet, 
She gathered pinks and mignonette, 
But hidden near her heart was rue. 
67 



THE PAGE'S SOyO OF THE HJFPY LADT 

The Happy Lady she was called, 
So few, so few 

Can bo so careless and so gay. 
But if she wept the night away 
None knew . . . none knew. 



FAERIES 

In the smoke-wraiths blown by a Summer wind, 

In the bubbles upon a stream. 

In the scent of a rose that was born in June, 

In the memory of a dream, 

In the joy that sings to a minor key, 

In the youth that is young eternally 

Lie the silver spell and the golden charm 

Of the World of Faerie. 

When the sense of a life once lived returns, 
When the wind is full of the Spring, 
When a freedom nothing can chain awakes 
Then I know that the faeries sing ; 
And they sing a song that would lead us forth, 
Ah! it's never to East nor West nor North 
But across the evening and through the dusk 
To the land of Faerie. 

69 



FAIRIES 

Their spell has a magic that words would break, 

But never the song of a bird 

In the splash of a stream that runs through a 

wood 
In the soughing trees it is heard. 
With a rustle amid the ferny brake, 
With the faintest ripple over the lake, 
With the sense of a presence near at hand 
Come the lords of Faerie. 

Men say that the faeries are bravely clad, 

But they come not in mortal guise. 

No voice has echoed the words they speak 

For they talk not in human wise. 

In the sudden patter of summer rain. 

In a wind that awakes to die again, 

In the murmur of birds through summer dawns 

Is the speech of Faerie. 



70 



TO TIM* 

(AN IRISH TERRIER) 

JEWEL of my heart, I sing your praise, 
Though you who are alas ! of middle age 
Have never been to school and cannot read 
The weary printed page. 

1 sing your eyes, two pools in shadowed streams 
Where your soul shines in depths of sunny brown, 
Alertly raised to read mj every mood 

Or thoughtfully cast down. 

I sing the little nose, so glossy wet. 
The well-trained sentry to your eager mind, 
So swift to catch the delicate glad scent 
Of rabbits on the wind. 

Ah! fair to me your wheaten coloured coat, 
And fair the darker velvet of your ear, 
Ragged and scarred with old hostilities 
That never taught you fear. 

* Tim died September 7, 1916. 
71 



TO TIM 

But oh ! your heart, where my unworthiness 
Is made perfection by love's alchemy, 
How often does your doghood's faith cry shame 
To my inconstancy. 

At last I know the hunter Death will come 
And whistle low the call ^-ou must obey. 
So you will leave me, comrade of my heart, 
To take a lonely way. 

Some tell me, Tim, we shall not meet again. 
But for their loveless logic need we care? 
If I should win to Heaven's gate I know 
You will be waiting there. 



A DOG'S GRAVE 

He sleeps where he would wish, in easy call, 
Here in a primrose nook beside the wall. 
And near the gate, that he may guard us all 
Even in death, our faithful seneschal. 

I do not think the courteous Cherubim 
Will chide him if he waits, nor Seraphim 
Summon him hence till we may follow him 
Who knew no heav'n without us — faithful Tim. 



T3 



TO SCOTT 

(A COLLIE, FOR NINE YEARS OUR FRIEND) 

Old friend, your place is empty now. No more 
Shall we obey the imperious deep-mouthed call 
That begged the instant freedom of our hall. 
We shall not trace your foot-fall on the floor 
Nor hear your urgent paws upon the door. 
The loud-thumped tail that welcomed one and all, 
The volleyed bark that nightly would appal 
Our tim'rous errand boys — these things are o'er. 

But always yours shall be a household name, 
And other dogs must list' your storied fame; 
So gallant and so courteous, Scott, you were. 
Mighty abroad, at home most debonair. 
Now God who made you will not count it blame 
That we commend your spirit to His care. 



T4 



THE MONKEY'S CAROL 

Kind Christian souls who pass me by 

On business intent, 
I pray you think on such as I 
Who pine in banishment. 

I wear a little coat of red, 
A little bonnet on my head. 
Kind gentles, throw a coin to me 
And God reward your charity. 



My master grinds the music out 

To cheer the sullen street; 
The children gather round about 
And dance with joyous feet. 

Have pity on the poor old man 
And give him pennies all who can; 
Have pity on his monkey too, 
And God be pitiful to you. 
76 



THE MONKEY'S CAROL 

Once long ago my heart was light 

Amongst my brethren in the south, 
Fulfilled with joy I slept at night 
The taste of mangoes in my mouth. 
But now I go from door to door. 
Have pity, gentles, on the poor. 
My master is both weak and old, 
And I am trembling in the cold. 

Your kitchens have a fragrant scent 

With pies and puddings on each side, 
I wish you all much merriment 

And peace and love this Christmastide. 
If you have nuts or fruit for me 
God will reward your charity; 
For if you give the poor their share 
God will not leave your platters bare. 



70 



PENSIONERS 

My pensioners who daily 
Come here to beg their fare, 
For all their need dress gaily 
And have a jaunty air. 
With "Tira— lira— lira-^ 
Now of your charity 
Pray help the little brethren 
Of noble poverty." 

One shines in glossy sable, 
One wears a russet coat, 
And one who seeks my table 
Has red about his throat. 
With "Tira— lira— lira— " 
Gay waistcoat, speckled vest. 
Black cap and fine blue bonnet, 
They all come bravely dressed. 
77 



PENSIONERS 

To them I gladly scatter 
In this their time of need. 
Heap bread upon their platter 
And ask not for mj meed, 
But in the jocund spring-time 
Their songs give back to me 
A thousand-fold — my brethren 
Of noble poverty. 



78 



LOOKERS-ON 

My dear, though you and I should never win 
Parts in the mumming play of life nor shine 
In tarletan, or tinsel, mouthing fine 
Sweet sentences beneath a limelight moon — 
What odds? The seats are cheap, we'll come 

within 
As lookers-on ; watch lover and buffoon 
And clap for Columbine and Harlequin. 

We'll laugh aloud at hoary Pantaloon, 
And know our silly wanton hearts akin 
To Punchinello's, fooled by love and wine. 
The play and players vanish all too soon, — 
To envy them were but a churlish sin; 
We will not grudge them flute and violin, 
We'll clap for Harlequin and Columbine. 

To envy them . . . Ah ! yes, — a churlish sin ! 



79 



FRIENDS 

My friends have been like daily bread. 

Essential yet unmerited; 

As kind as sunshine after rain 

And firelight on the window pane: 

As kind as harbour lights at sea 

Or some familiar melody: 

As good as salt my friends to me. 

I count them over for love's praise, — 
The rascal troop of childhood's days, 
The laughter-loving friends of school 
Who sighed beneath the selfsame rule. 
The lank of limb, the quick of tongue, 
With waist-encircling arms we clung, — 
So well we loved when we were young. 

I found them matched to every mood, 
Wise, frivolous or rash or good; 
Gay comrades of the winter fire 
Or, answering summertime's desire, 
Companions of the sun and wind. 
Dear fellow-travellers, proven, kind, 
The spirit-kin of heart and mind. 
80 



FRIENDS 

I bless them all, but ah ! most blessed 

Be those true friends beyond the rest 

Who, silent but yet unafraid. 

Have watched and waited, loved and prayed, 

When, lone as every soul must be, 

The dreary shadows closed on me 

In nether-pits of agony. 

• • • * 

With friendship little need I care 

For stiffening limbs and whitening hair, 

For as the tale of years is told 

My friends grow old — they too grow old. 

But since death makes worn things anew 

Old bonds shall prove more tried and true, 

I'll still love you ... and you ... and you. 



81 



ANGELIC SERVICE 

No angel is so high 

But serveth clowns and kings 

And doeth lowly things ; 

He in this serviceable love can see 

The symbol of some heavenly mystery, — > 

So common things grow wings. 

No angel bravely dressed 

In larkspur-coloured gown, 

But he will bend him down 

And sweep with careful art the meanest floor, 

Singing the while he sweeps and toiling more 

Because he wears a crown. 

Set water on to boil. 

An angel helps thee straight; 

Kneeling beside the grate 

With pursed mouth he bloweth up the flame, 

Chiding the tardy kettle that for shame 

Would make an angel wait. 



ANGELIC SERVICE 

Make thou conserves, the while 

Two little cherubs stand 

Tip-toe at either hand, 

And one would help thee stir, and one would skim 

The golden juice that foams about the brim. 

So serveth thy command. 

And that same toil-worn broom 
So humble in thine eyes. 
Perchance has donned disguise 
And is a seraph on this errand bent, 
To show thee service is a sacrament 
And Love wears servant's guise. 



OUR LADY OF THE LUPINS 

Our Lady loves the lily fair 

Who stands so tall and white 
With head bowed down in constant prayer 

To Christ, the King of light. 

The daisies in the meadow grass 
Right dear she holds them all, 

And smiles if she should hap' to pass 
The roses on the wall. 

She loves the flowers in their degree 

For each one is a gem 
Of worth and beauty fit to be 

In some saint's diadem. 

The gay nasturtium on her way 

Lights up its blossom fires 
By beauty only can it say 

The love which she inspires. 
84 



OVB LADY OF THE LUPINS 

Before her feet the blossoms fall 
Because she loves them well, 

But on the lupins most of all 
Her eyes delight to dwell. 

Each spire is clothed in God's own blue, 

And faith it signifies; 
Our Lady's robe is of this hue, 

The colour of the skies. 

The lupins' pride of blue and green 
Delights the Mother blessed; 

She stands among them as their queen, 
They reach unto her breast. 



65 



THE DOCTOR 

There's a grassy place they call the Grove, close 

by St. John o' God's, 
Where sally willows bloom in spring, gold heads 

on pale-green rods. 
The chestnuts brust their swollen buds, a stream 

goes splashing by. 
You'll see the young leaves o' the year against a 

rain-washed sky. 
And where else would you choose but be there on 

the sun-warmed sods? 

'Twas there old Molly often went and rested on 

the grass. 
Begging a copper for God's sake of all that she'd 

see pass. 
She'd bless them up to Heaven's gate and pledge 

her word to pray 
For their salvation if they'd spare a penny for 

some tay. 
Their hearts were softer, so she thought, as they 

went home from Mass. 
86 



THE DOCTOR 

A poor old dirty woman, what way was she at all? 
Her skirt all torn to flitters, and rags itself her 

shawl : 
A quare old silly woman, her boots let in the rain, 
And sorra stocking to her feet, you'd see her limp 

with pain, 
Letting a sigh at every step an' clutchin' at the 

wall. 

Herself was in it one fine day, when down the path 

there came 
A dacint stranger dressed in black, she couldn't 

tell his name, 
"God save your honour this good day, an' that 

you'll keep your health; 
The saints protect yous," Molly said, "an' send 

you luck and wealth." 
"God save yourself, poor soul," says he, "an' may 

jou have the same." 

He stood a minyit watching her, an' she began to 

whine 
The same old tale she always had for thim whose 

clothes was fine. 

87 



THE DOCTOR 

She hadn't broken fast that day, an' surely she 

was bet, 
A cup o' tay to warm her heart she hadn't tasted 

yet, 

An' she so old — just closin' in on seventy-eight or 
nine. 



The dacint stranger looked at her, the look of him 

was kind; 
Whativer thing it was God knows that brought 

into her mind 
The Passionists that came to preach in April was 

a year, 
The time the big Retreat was held for all the 

people here. 
Fine holy men that scared us well to leave our sins 

behind. 



"I know you, Molly, well," says he, "a power of 

times we've met. 
Your sight is not so good itself, or maybe you 

forget 



THE DOCTOR 

The times we've passed, but now you beg and sorra 

coin have I, 
But, better still, I know a cure you have a right to 

try. 
Take courage now and tell me all, I'll surely cure 

you yet." 



She let a laugh to hear him talk, "God help you, 

dear," says she, 
" 'Twould take a knowledgeable man to cure the 

likes o' me; 
But I've heard of travelling doctors with bottles 

that they sell 
At seven an' fi'pence each, no less, that's bound to 

make you well. 
I'm thinking, now your honour speaks, it's one of 

thim you'll be." 



He let a laugh himself that time: "Ah! Molly, 

there's no saying, 
A cure I have for wake and old, and niver talk of 

paying; 

89 



THE DOCTOR 

Come, tell me of the way you are, the woeful pains 

you feel. 
You're stiff to move, and in the church 'tis mortal 

hard to kneel. 
And harder still to rise yourself the time you've 

done your praying?" 



"Aye, stranger, that's the way I am; they call it 

being old. 
And kilt I am with weary roads, with hunger and 

the cold. 
But yet, God help me, I was young as any girl 

you'll see. 
And had the lads all leppin' up to run and look 

at me, 
A fine young figyure of a girl with hair like shiny 

gold." 



Old Molly laughed, she rubbed her hands, then 

coughed and held her side. 
The poor old withered creature, you'd think she 

would have died 

90 



TUE DOCTOR 

Before she fetched her breath again and found the 

strength to spake; 
"That God may pity me," she gasped, "I'm feeling 

mortal wake, 
The cough it caught a hoult of me to sarve me for 

my pride. 



"There's no lie in it, honey, none! I'm tellin' 

simple truth, 
The lovely girl I was myself when in the flow'r o' 

youth. 
As careless as the month o' May ; still, mind yous, 

tidy-living, 
But looks and smiles when girls are young there's 

little harm in giving." 
She smiled, the creature, as she spoke, an' showed 

one broken tooth. 



"The money, stranger, flew those times ; I've spent 

nigh twenty shilling 
To buy a pair of laced-up boots, my father he was 

willing, 

91 



THE DOCTOR 

An' a lovely feathered hat I wore the times we 

drove to Mass, 
The lot of us packed warm and close behind the 

little ass, 
But ruinated, faith ! it was one day when rain was 

spilling. 



"And then I married with himself, and things were 

liard enough. 
When he'd drink taken, nothing plazed, and often 

he'd be rough — 
That God may pity him, poor soul — we had our 

share of throuble. 
The notions in a young girl's mind are like a shiny 

bubble 
That will burst the day she marries, for life is 

different stuff. 



'•The childcr came too fast those times, but there 

— God's will is best, 
He sends the cliild, and though you're poor, you've 

got to do the rest. 



THE DOCTOR 

I never could sit under them, and most had bandy 

legs, 
The like of us can't rare a child on butcher's meat 

and eggs; 
'Twas lack of nourishment made Pat so wakely in 

his chest. 



"He died on us in Loughlinstown, there in a Union 

bed. 
And hard it was to bury him, for we were wanting 

bread, 
My grief ! the next to go was Liz, she died the end 

of May, 
I let the sorrow in on me when she had gone 

away. 
It seemed my heart was frozen stone, I had no 

tears to shed. 



"The Boers they killed poor Terry, that joined 

the Fusiliers ; 
I saw the other boys come back, and heard the 

people's cheers. 

93 



THE DOCTOR 

And Mary's in America, but God knows where 

she'll be, 
A Christianable daughter would take more heed 

for me; 
But not a word she's thought to write this weary 

length o' years. 



"My comrade he was taken, too, the drink had him 

destroyed ; 
He died on me one Christmas time, and wasn't I 

annoyed 
To have no bands of crape to wear as token of 

respect. 
An' but one coach to follow was the cruel hard 

neglect. 
For a dacint funeral was a thing himself would 

have enjoyed. 



"Not one of thim is in it now, and here am I 

alone. 
With sorra one to welcome me, or place to call my 

own. 

94 



THE DOCTOR 

The weary world it is to me, for God has sent me 
sorrow, 

I'm badly situated now, with nothing for to- 
morrow — 

An' if I can't pay fi'pence down, my bed may be a 
stone." 



Old Molly lost her breath and coughed as the' her 

heart was breakin', 
Maybe the stranger pitied her, so thin she was and 

shakin', 
A poor old bag of bones itself inside her ragged 

shawl. 
He caught her hand, she clutched at him, for she 

was like to fall, 
Her heart was thumping at her side, an' all her 

limbs were achin'. 



Through passing clouds the sun shone out and 

sparkled on the sod 
A little shining spear of green was every willow 

rod, 

95 



THE DOCTOR 

The stranger looked in Molly's eyes, she struggled 
for her breath. 

She knew his name, poor creature, now — the doc- 
tor's name was Death. 

"O Christ," she moaned, "receive my soul. Have 
pity on me, God." 



Sparrows were chirping, blackbirds sang, their 

comrades' hearts to please. 
And sorra heed they took of her that lay below the 

trees. 
Splash of the stream the silence stirred or beat of 

pigeon's wing 
A squirrel peeped above a bough to see the 

crumpled thing 
Upon the grass, with crusts of bread still lying on 

her knees. 



A robin bolder than the rest hopped down upon 

her shawl 
And picked the bread she couldn't use, then 

perched upon the wall, 
96 



THE DOCTOR 

Singing his grace and watching her that was so 

quare an' still, 
He thought he had a right, maybe, to go, an' take 

his fill; 
He lit down on her poor old boot, she never moved 

at all. 



A man, was after selling ferns, came through the 

place at last, 
His wife that had the basket she couldn't walk so 

fast, 
But streeled behind, her ragged skirt flapping at 

either heel; 
She chewed, the creature, as she went a bit of 

orange peel. 
An' wondered what old heap of rags upon the 

ground was cast. 



'Twas Molly that was lying there, and sure himself 

knew well; 
He took the pipe out from his mouth, then turned 

and let a yell: 

97 



THEDOCTOB 

" 'Tis poor old Molly Quin," says he, "d'ye see the 

way she's lying? 
An' stiff and cold she is itself, the creature's after 

dying. 
Let yous stay here a minyit now, I'll seek for one 

to tell." 



The woman put her basket down, and crossed her- 
self and cried: 

"May God have mercy on her soul, 'twas all alone 
she died 

Like some old crow beside the road, now that's the 
woeful sight. 

The polls should be warned of this, maybe you 
have a right 

To go find one of thim beyant, I'll stay here at her 
side." 



He looked at Molly huddled there, the crusts upon 

her knee. 
" 'Tis sure enough ourselves will die the self-same 

way," says he: 

98 



THE DOCTOR 

"Just thravel till we drop down dead and lie in any 

ditch — 
A dacint death and burying are meant for thiin 

that's rich. 
Let you stay here now till I bring the polis back 

with me." 



Close by the wall there runs a path through tangle 
of great weeds, 

And one cuts straight across the grass and to the 
village leads. 

The woman watched her comrade go, then stared 
up at the sky 

For fear would Molly peep at her from out a half- 
closed eye. 

She fumbled in her ragged skirt until she found 
her beads, 



Then started muttering aloud, her lips moved fast 

in praj^er. 
A little wind that stirred the grass went ruffing 

through her hair; 

99 



THE DOCTOR 

It blew the rags of Molly's shawl against her pale, 

dead face, 
And all the while it told the birds that Spring was 

in the place. 
What heed, the creatures, did they take that death 

itself was there? 

The woman prayed, but watched a wren upon an 

ivy wreath, 
A nest was hidden somewhere safe in the old wall 

beneath. 
The comrade bird upon a branch his small sweet 

song was singing, 
Then on a sudden from St. John's the Angelus was 

ringing : 
A passing bell it was for one cured by the doctor. 

Death. 



100 



SAILS 

Wheee Taw flows out from Banim Town, 

Where Taw flows out to sea, 

The bonny boats sail up and down 

Upon the Estuary; 

They carry — Heaven knows what store — 

Past Instow and past Appledore, 

With sunburnt jolly men aboard 

From Westward Ho and Bideford. 



Where Taw flows out from Barum Town, 
The full tide brings the sails 
Of orange hue or tawny brown 
That weather many gales; 
And some are white as wind-blown foam 
And others red as Devon loam. 
With goodly bales they come and go 
To Bideford and Westward Ho. 
101 



BAILS 

Where Taw flows out from Barum Town 

I dearly long to be, 

With sails of tangerine and brown 

To sail with you to sea. 

Who'd care at all if we were poor 

At Instow or at Appledore. 

We'd sail — so be we could afford — 

To Westward Ho and Bideford. 



103 



THE REBEL 

God, when I kneel down to pray 
Heed only then the words I say 
And do not listen to my heart 
Which mutters to itself apart. 

1 say, "God bless my enemies." 

Then take my word and bless them, please; 
Be deaf to that fierce self <vhich still 
Murmurs, "But ah! I wish them ill!" 

I say, "Dear God, Thy will is best," 
But loud and angry in my breast 
This untamed heart is crying, "Nay, 
"Not Thine, but mine; I want my way." 
Two selves that struggle — one loves sin, 
And one loves God. Say, which shall win.? 
Be deaf, Lord, to the evil voice 
And give my rebel heart no choice. 
103 



AEROPLANES AND 
DRAGONFLIES 

A SHIMMER, a glimmer beside the stream; 
Blue flame, green flame, jewels of a dream; 
Emeralds that quiver above the water weeds ; 
Sapphires that shiver among the spear-like reeds. 
Gems that have wings, that chase and float and 

rise; 
Gems of June's casket — dragonflies. 

Over sky-fields, down streams of windy space 
Hover great aeroplanes that swoop and chase. 
Surely the war gods shout to hear them hum — 
"Brother! Young gods with thunderbolts are 

come. 
Greater than we, yet wearing man's disguise, 
Sons of Thor's breed who ride on dragonflies." 
104. 



THE TRYST 

"Until we meet again" — ah, happy meeting! 
But, weary with the town, I crave God's pity 
And ask cool meadows for that promised greeting, 
Far from the jewelled gates, the shining city; 

Wide meadows where the buttercups are golden. 
No jewels there but eyebright and red clover, 
A stream that creeps by willows grey and olden. 
Waters with weeds and flowers 'broidered over. 

Great dragon flies that flit and gleam and quiver, 
Bees that make silence music by their humming; 
— So still a place I'd ask of God the giver. 
Where I might wait the moment of your coming; 

Far from the thronging saints, the seraph quire 
I'd see the dawning of my heart's desire. 



105 



POEMS BY 

EVELYN UNDERHILL 

The Historian and Poet of Mysticism 

Author of 

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Miss Underhill by her writings has done 
more than any living English writer to re- 
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These books of pure and exquisite verse 
are mystical in the finest sense, and pro- 
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There is solace and refreshment in these 
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E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 
681 Fifth Avenue New York City 

y (15) 



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Feelings and Things 

BY 

EDNA KINGSLEY WALLACE 

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A book of delightfully humorous and delicate 
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Under the titles "Happy Ones," "Wistful 
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E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 
68 1 Fifth Avenue New York City 

(16) 



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